Bitter Retribution

by Rachel Sharpe

  “Uh, Heather?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It was cool watching the table-reading—”

  “But?” she interrupted, glancing up between key strokes.

  “But, well,” I hesitated. It was obvious Heather didn’t have much time. Unfortunately, my hesitation caught her attention and she stopped typing. “Look, I have zero experience with filming a television show, but it just seems like, I don’t know, everything’s kinda . . . rushed. Is this normal?”

  “No, it’s not,” Heather sighed, scratching her ear and causing her curly hair to fall onto her face. Removing the hair tie from her left wrist, she pulled it back. “This is all very rushed. Remember when I called you last week about meeting me here?” I nodded. “Well, the decision to film this episode in Durango was made less than thirty minutes before that call. Nancy wasn’t planning to promote me. When she fired the previous head writer, she lost the rest of this season’s storylines. I had to crank this plot out in a day! That’s why everything’s so choppy.”

  “You may’ve had to crank it out in a day, but this is good.” Heather rolled her eyes in response. “Seriously, it’s amazing. Possibly the best story ever written for this show and you know I’ve been watching it since the pilot.”

  “Yeah, okay,” she scoffed. “No offense, but your opinion doesn’t count. You have to say that. You’re my best friend.”

  “Please. I may be your best friend, but I’d totally tell you if your story sucked. Anyway, what happens next?”

  “That’s Charlotte and the guy next to her is Tom,” Heather explained, pointing at an attractive African American girl with long, straight hair and a man in his late thirties with a scruffy beard and braided hair. As we spoke, they approached the table. “They’re also writers. If it weren’t for them, this script would never have been finished in time. Guys, this is my best friend, Jordan.”

  Charlotte smiled politely and shook my hand. Tom walked up and embraced me in a bear hug that caught me off guard. He smelled like a mix of herbs and mint. When he finally released me, he took a step back and steepling his fingers, bowed. “It’s totally awesome to meet you. You have a really strong aura. It’s gnarly.”

  “Tom, focus,” Heather ordered. “We’ve got a lot of work and no time. I just emailed you guys the notes from the table-read. Nancy says they’re gonna film the hotel room scenes first. I need a minute with Jordan. Can you guys get started?”

  “Right away,” Charlotte nodded, holding up her laptop. As she pulled out a chair, she glanced at me and smiled. “Heather tells me you’ve had some pretty incredible cases. Maybe we can get coffee later and I can pick your brain for concepts.”

  “Back off, Char,” Heather warned jokingly. “Jordan’s my best friend. I claim creative dibs on her cases.”

  Charlotte laughed as she opened her laptop. Heather motioned for me to follow her and we walked toward the open doorway. Hurrying down the hall, we paused near the workout center.

  “Guess you’ll be working late, huh?”

  “Yeah, it looks like it,” she sighed, frowning. “I wish you could stay, but the hotel room scenes are a closed set. When we film on the slopes you’re more than welcome, but I don’t think Nance’ll even allow Tom and Charlotte on set for the interiors. Sorry.”

  “That’s cool,” I smiled, shrugging nonchalantly to play off my disappointment. “Don’t worry about me. I’m probably gonna grab dinner and then turn in. It’s been a long day.”

  “You’re going to bed now?” she sputtered, suspicion growing in her eyes. “Okay, what’s the deal? It’s not even six thirty!”

  “Nothing,” I insisted. “Nothing, I promise. Go on. You’ve gotta work. Are we still on for skiing tomorrow?”

  “Hopefully,” Heather muttered, adjusting her hair and pulling the stubborn tresses tighter. “Nancy hasn’t said anything about the call time for tomorrow, but I’ll know for sure later. This really sucks.”

  “Heather, chill,” I laughed. “We’re gonna hang out. There’s plenty of time. Now get back to work before your friend Tom has all your characters high on, uh, life.”

  “You really went there, didn’t you?”

  “Couldn’t help myself.”

  “Tom’s definitely unique,” she agreed, “but his comic timing is almost perfect. Some of the show’s funniest moments were the result of his take on life.”

  “It takes all kinds,” I shrugged. “Go on. Get back to work. Your writers need you.”

  “Ha, ha, okay,” she smiled, rolling her eyes. “Bye.”

  “Bye.” When she walked away, I checked my phone’s messages as I headed to the hotel’s restaurant. In the lobby, I noticed some crewmembers lugging equipment toward the elevators. When I turned back to my phone, I noticed my mother had called twice and left me a voicemail. I cringed.

  “Hey, lady! Watch out!”

  I looked up to see three other crewmembers carrying microphones and cords rushing past me. Apologizing, I hurried to the Black Diamond restaurant to avoid getting in anyone else’s way. Leaning against the wall near the restaurant doors, I pressed play.

  “Hello, sweetie,” my mother chirped. “Well, you didn’t call, even though you said you would, but I’m assuming you made it to Denver all right.”

  “Durango,” I muttered to myself.

  “Anyway, Grandma Pearl arrived today. It’s such a pleasure to have her here!”

  “Who are you yelling at? And what’s with this weather? It’s supposed to be fall, you know,” I heard my grandma grumble in the background. “It feels like July! I’m sweating. Would you look at this? I’m sweating. In November. God help me!”

  “Yes, we’re so happy to have grandma here,” my mother continued, strain in her voice.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Grandma Pearl demanded. “You’re so rude. Talking to someone else when I risked my life to fly here. Do you have any idea how traumatic flying can be? The turbulence was so bad I could feel my dentures shake! I wish Joel married a local girl . . . God help me, I would’ve even settled for a Jersey girl. What is that? You’re not making any of that terrible Cajun food, are you? You know I don’t have a gallbladder. You’ll kill me with all those spices . . . . unless that’s what you want to do, you . . . slave trader!”

  I heard my mother breathing heavily into the phone. It was clear she was having trouble maintaining her bubbly persona. Speaking slowly, she chirped, “No, Pearl. Everything will be perfect! Jordan, I’m going to have to go. I hope you’re having fun. Love you lots.”

  The message ended abruptly and I found myself torn between laughing at the comic scene and pitying my mother. I decided to feel sympathetic as I pocketed the phone. I opened one of the tinted glass doors with the words “Black Diamond Restaurant & Bar” written in silver letters inside the image of a mountain peak. The atmosphere inside the restaurant sharply contrasted the bright, vibrant colors of the hotel. With dim lighting, dark woods and maroon wallpaper, the restaurant gave off the feel of a 1950s nightclub replete with a small, raised stage where a woman in black sang softly to the tunes of a soulful saxophone.

  “Welcome to Black Diamond.” An attractive hostess wearing a black button-up shirt, black slacks and six-inch black heels, approached with a polite smile. “Dining alone?”

  Although this statement was not meant to be a personal slight, I felt belittled nonetheless. Nodding, I followed her as she snaked through a maze of tables and finally stopped by a small table near the bar. She handed me a heavy, black-leather menu, informed me of my waiter’s imminent arrival, and slithered back to the entrance.

  It took several moments for my eyes to adjust to the lack of lighting, but once they did, I was impressed by the understated attractiveness of a lounge-style dining establishment. Few people were in the restaurant that evening but it didn’t take me
long to discover Jon and Alson were among the other patrons present. They were seated across the room in a black-leather booth with two attractive girls, most likely other hotel guests trying to get close to the famous Alson Andrews. Alson, as usual, was cutting up loudly and Jon was apparently wingman in this nauseating episode of “Entourage, Jr.”

  “Good evening,” I turned to see a short, robust man with dirty-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail smiling down at me. “Are you expecting someone?”

  “No,” I frowned. “Not tonight.”

  “Could I start you off with something from the bar?”

  “Definitely,” I sighed, glancing at Jon.

  The waiter nodded before hurrying off to the bar. Less than two minutes later, he returned with the fruity cocktail and took my dinner order. I kept glancing at Jon unconsciously and finally, Jon met my gaze. There was a perplexed look on his face. Hoping to appear less pathetic than I probably looked, I held up the glass and symbolically toasted him.

  I swallowed a mouthful of watered-down rum. “Here’s to a fun vacation.”

  9

  “He’s in love with you.”

  I whirled around to find a beautiful woman with silky-blonde hair and big brown eyes staring down at me. She appeared to be about my height, five-six, with a thin waist and black-framed glasses. I figured she was probably in her mid to late thirties. Something about her struck me as very familiar, but I couldn’t place it. From the far right corner of the room, a man dressed in a dark suit began playing a baby grand piano. I eyed the woman again. “Who are you talking about?”

  She nodded at Jon, sitting down at my table without invitation. “I’ve been watching you two from the bar. Every time you look away, he looks at you. It’s almost magnetic, the energy between you two.”

  “Right.” I laughed, taking another sip. “Sorry, but you’re way off. He’s my friend, that’s all.”

  “If he’s your friend, why isn’t he with you?” When I refused to answer, she extended her hand. “Forgive me. My name is Rosalyn Grace.”

  “Rosalyn Grace,” I repeated, straining to place the name. Suddenly, it hit me. “Hold up, you’re the shrink!”

  Even in the dark room, I was immediately aware my outburst had gained me an audience. From the corner of the room, I saw Jon staring at me, his eyes wide as Alson and the two girls snickered. I was grateful that the room was dark and that he couldn’t see that I was blushing. With my heart pounding in my ears, I glared at the woman watching me with mild amusement.

  “I usually go by psychologist, but if you prefer to use an outdated, derogatory term, well, that’s your prerogative, I suppose.”

  “Did Heather put you up to this?”

  “Heather?” she repeated, her soft features contorting with confusion. Suddenly, her brown eyes lit up. Her ruby red lips curled into a half-smile. “Oh, you mean the new head writer. I do recall someone mentioning she was bringing a friend.”

  “Yeah,” I frowned, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair. Throwing down some cash to cover my drink, I snapped, “And I’m out of here.”

  “Please, don’t leave on my account.”

  Despite my annoyance, her statement stopped me in my tracks. Turning on my heels, I glared at her. With the finesse of a professional ballerina, she motioned at the empty chair. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was just the pathetic concept of spending the first evening of my vacation alone. Whatever the case, I found myself seated again.

  “I’m not here for therapy,” I grumbled. Throwing my jacket on the chair to my right, I added, “This is my table anyway.”

  “Of course.” She smiled slyly.

  “Will you be dining with us this evening, too?” the waiter asked, having appeared out of nowhere.

  “Yes,” Rosalyn nodded, never breaking eye contact with me. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

  He nodded and bowed out again, hurrying to place her order. I continued to glare at her as I finished my drink. Everything about this woman irritated me beyond words. “What was that? A mind game? You don’t even know what I ordered.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I don’t really care about what I eat.”

  Your nineteen-inch waist says otherwise, sister. “What do you want?”

  “Quite honestly, I was looking for a nice, quiet dinner with some decent conversation. Your friend didn’t send me, I promise.” She leaned back in the chair as she glanced at Alson’s table again. Pausing, she met my gaze. “May I ask a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Please don’t refer to me as a shrink. It’s quite insulting and besides, I’m not even a psychiatrist. I’m a clinical psychologist specializing in counseling. I just listen to people, without passing judgment, and try to offer helpful suggestions.”

  The longer I sat there, the more I felt my anger begin to subside. After several moments, I realized she was staring at me. “I have a psychology degree.”

  “Really?” Her eyes lit up and she leaned forward. “Then you do know what I’m talking about. Tonight’s gotten a little more interesting. Tell me, what do you do with your degree?”

  “I design Christmas cards.”

  “I see,” she nodded, smiling as she took a sip of her drink. “That must be an interesting line of work. I expect your sales will pick up after this weekend.”

  “Probably,” I muttered, glancing over at the guys. Alson downed a shot of whisky and slapped the table while the girls giggled. Jon, who leaned against his left arm with a half-smile plastered on his face, looked thoroughly bored as he stared down at his beer. I noticed the waiter had replenished my cocktail.

  “That isn’t going to solve your problem.” Rosalyn interrupted my thoughts. “If I may, what happened between you two?”

  “I told you, I’m not talking to you.” Just then, the burly waiter appeared with two small plates of chicken salad sandwiches and baked potato chips. He placed them before us. When neither of us required anything else, he faded into the shadows. Famished, I chomped down on a chip. Rosalyn glanced at the sandwich then me. “What now? Are you analyzing me based on my food selection?”

  “No,” she replied, taking a small sip of her drink. “Tell me, what was your favorite psychology class?”

  “Huh?”

  “Mine was cognitive psychology. My teacher was this tiny, thin man who used his hands whenever he spoke. He always had this mischievous glint in his eye. It was like he had a secret that he was dying to share but you had to guess—”

  “Is there a point to this conversation?” I felt guilty the moment the words escaped my lips. It was not like me to be so rude. The events of the past three weeks had turned my world upside down and I now found myself questioning everything I once held true. I sat back in silence and stared down at my sandwich. Taking a sip, I muttered, “Sorry. Men . . . complicate things.”

  Rosalyn chewed a bite of sandwich and waited several moments before responding. “You’re right,” she agreed, her silky-blonde hair cascading down her shoulder as she tilted her head.

  “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got? ‘You’re right?’ Where did you get your doctorate? A Happy Meal?” Again, I spoke without thought and felt guilty. My face flushed and I shook my head apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m usually not like this.”

  “Believe me, I’ve heard worse,” Rosalyn smiled politely as she wiped her mouth with the red linen napkin. “Would you like to discuss what’s bothering you now?”

  Waving down the waiter, I asked, “May I have a water, please?”

  “One water? Yes, miss.”

  “Could you make that two?” Rosalyn breathed, holding up her hand gracefully.

  He nodded and hurried off. When I looked up again, I had the distinct feeling that someone was watching me. I turned toward the far table and noticed Jon l
ooking at me as he helped a clearly-inebriated Alson stumble to his feet. Again, it was apparent that he had something to say, but instead of addressing anything, he chose to help Tox drag Alson from the restaurant. Looking down at my sandwich again, I muttered, “I’d rather not.”

  “That’s fine. I’m not your therapist. But, may I give you a little bit of unsolicited advice?”

  I hesitated before nodding.

  “In life, there are no guarantees. There’s no such thing as unconditional love. It sounds harsh, but . . . that’s just the painful reality of it all. People are so self-absorbed, they cannot give freely of themselves unless—”

  “Unless what?” I heard myself ask.

  “Well,” she paused, smiling sadly. “Like my grandmother says, before you can build a strong relationship with others, you need to love yourself. Men will never fill that void. Neither will drugs . . . or alcohol.”

  The waiter arrived and she accepted her glass of water. Taking a sip, she handed him her credit card. “It’s on me.”

  He hurried off with her card before I could argue.

  “Don’t rely on men to make you feel fulfilled. All it will do is lead you down a path of destruction from which you may never recover.” As she said this, I noticed a flicker of malice flash across her eyes. Blinking it away, she smiled again. “I have one more question then I’ll leave you to finish your meal in peace. What’s your name?”

  “Jordan,” I replied, taking a gulp of my water.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Jordan.” As we shook, the waiter returned with a tiny black tray on which her credit card rested. She signed the bill then stood up. “I’m sure we’ll meet again. Good night.”