Frontline

by Alexandra Richland

  Sean laughs. “Since when?”

  Even Christopher snickers.

  Trenton doesn’t flinch. I wonder if his years of business experience taught him to remain calm under pressure. He should be in full-on panic mode since Sean just inadvertently confirmed that he lied to me on Friday night when he told me about his penchant for late evening strolls and how he ended up with the gash on his forehead.

  “I’m not lazy, Sara,” Trenton says. “It’s simply how I operate.”

  “Well, it’s time for a Merrick corporate shake-up.”

  “Sara, get in the car.” Trenton gestures to the Ferrari.

  “We’re walking. I’m not trying to be difficult. It’s about practicality, the ozone, ridiculously high gas prices . . . What you’re proposing makes no sense, whatsoever.”

  Trenton and I lock into our standoff. Christopher and Sean are smart and stay out of the dispute. Finally, Trenton’s expression softens just enough to let me know I’ve won him over.

  He looks at Christopher and Sean. “Sara and I are going to walk. I’ll meet you outside the diner at ten hundred hours.”

  Ten hundred hours?

  It’s an interesting way for a businessman to state the time.

  “I have a video conference call at eleven,” Trenton says to me.

  I nod.

  Sean and Christopher look uneasy with their boss’s decision. They share a silent exchange and then fall back. Sean removes his car keys from his pocket and walks back to the third car in the mini convoy. Christopher returns to the first one.

  “You can move your car to the back of the hospital,” I say to Trenton. “There’s a parking garage there.”

  “I’m leaving it here.” The finality in his tone tells me the matter is not up for discussion.

  I guess he doesn’t care that his car will be towed by the time we return, given the No Parking sign mounted on a pole on the sidewalk near his vehicle, the fire hydrant situated next to the passenger side door, and the red lines painted all the way down the street.

  Sean and Christopher slam their doors shut and start their engines.

  I smile at Trenton. “Shall we?”

  He takes my hand and walks me to the crosswalk. Only when the walk sign illuminates does he usher me across the road, his stride purposeful and his eyes trained on alert.

  Much to my disbelief and embarrassment, Sean and Christopher follow us down the street in their vehicles, keeping with our walking pace and holding up traffic. Horns beep and drivers shout profanity out their windows.

  I nudge my chin in their direction. “Is it really necessary for Christopher and Sean to shadow us like this?”

  Trenton shoots me a warning look. I don’t press the matter. After all, he already compromised by agreeing to walk to the restaurant. I don’t want to push my luck.

  We continue our stroll in silence, followed by his security who clearly take their jobs much too seriously and aren’t fans of carpooling. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to how Trenton’s life works.

  “Well, this is the place.” I stop in front of the diner.

  Sean and Christopher stop in the middle of the road. The symphony of horns from the disgruntled drivers behind them makes me cringe. Thankfully, Trenton indicates they can leave and they peel off down the street.

  Finally, we’re alone.

  Trenton looks at the restaurant’s sign, squinting against the sunlight.

  “Sam and Ella’s.” He turns to me, his eyebrows raised. “Please tell me this is a joke.”

  I giggle. “I think it’s crafty.”

  Trenton frowns.

  “The food is tasty and perfectly safe,” I say. “The diner has been around a long time.”

  “Yes, I see—since 1992,” Trenton says in a wary drawl, reading the date at the bottom corner of the sign. He scans the front of the diner. “Aside from the poor name selection, the absence of a Zagat rating in the window is unsettling.”

  “Who are you, Gordon Ramsay?” I tug on his arm. “Come on, I’m starving.”

  The door chimes as we enter, and the aroma of bacon and eggs quickly replaces the stench of the street. Aside from the faint murmur of an oldies station from the dusty speakers mounted in each corner, and the creaking, wobbly ceiling fans, the diner falls silent, as every customer focuses on us; even the employees seem impressed by my handsome breakfast companion.

  Trenton’s expression remains impassive. I hope my eatery selection doesn’t put him in an uncomfortable social position—not that he ever looks anything less than completely self-assured.

  “Hi Sara!” Sam, one of the owners, calls to me from the door to kitchen behind the counter. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to share everyone else’s enthusiasm over my date.

  I wave. “Hey, Sam!”

  His grin widens. “Pick any table you like.”

  I turn to Trenton. “Where would you like to sit?”

  “Back left corner, second booth from the rear wall.”

  Decisiveness is clearly one of his strong suits.

  As Trenton escorts me toward his preferred table, his hand pressed to my lower back, heads turn. A woman old enough to be my grandmother, sitting in a booth we pass on our right, looks as if she hopes Trenton is listed on the dessert menu, as does a young man perched at the counter to our left, who takes full advantage of his swivel stool to watch us trek across the room.

  We slide into the booth across from each other, the cracked vinyl seats squeaking under our weight. Trenton’s knees reach the underside of the table. It must be awkward for him, but he doesn’t make a face or complain.

  A commotion erupts near the kitchen as the waitresses argue over which one of them will serve Trenton and me. It boils down to two contenders. They settle on a coin toss to decide the winner.

  I hear one groan and one squeal simultaneously. Then, an attractive, thirty-something, redheaded waitress approaches us and places two laminated menus on the table. The victor’s name is Mona, which I remember because she’s served me before.

  Her name is also prominently displayed on the plastic ID tag pinned to the front of her tight, white, low-cut T-shirt, which shows off her big boobs. She flaunts her voluptuous figure as she leans over and wipes our table with a wet rag, leaving streaks of water in her wake. If she bends over any further, her T-shirt clad tits will dry the tabletop for her. How resourceful.

  Mona stands and flips the rag over her shoulder.

  “Welcome to Sam and Ella’s.” She directs her greeting at my companion as though he’s here all by himself.

  Trenton focuses on her for the first time since she bounced over here. Thankfully, he looks into her eyes and not elsewhere.

  “Good morning.” His voice holds an air of professional indifference. “We’ll have two waters to start, and not from the tap.”

  “Uh, sure,” she says, and runs off.

  Trenton picks up his menu. “I’m paying.”

  I decide to throw him a curve. “Sounds good to me.”

  “No argument?” he says, perusing the breakfast choices. “I’m surprised.”

  “Why, were you trying to use reverse psychology on me, hoping I would pay?”

  Trenton glances at me over his menu. “I’ve merely grown accustomed to your stubbornness.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t order the most expensive item now that I know I’m in the clear.”

  I grin at him extra widely. His lips lift in a scrumptious smirk and he shakes his head.

  As he scans the menu, I study his various facial expressions. In less than a minute, he frowns, cringes, scrunches his nose, bites his lower lip, and furrows his brow.

  Finally, he places his menu on the table and leans back, draping his arm across the back of the booth. “Well, Sara, since you’re familiar with this establishment, what do you recommend?”

  Mr. Controlling and Decisive requests my assistance. I’m shocked.

  I fold my hands on the table. “Since you’re paying, I say we splurge on two orders o
f the Pancake Mountain Special. It comes with coffee as well.”

  Trenton lifts his eyebrows. “I assume you’ve had this special before.”

  “Yes, and I’ve lived to tell the tale.” My joke earns me another smirk from Mr. Mercurial. “In my opinion, their pancakes taste best when you drown them in Canadian maple syrup.”

  “Imagine, all that for three ninety-nine plus tax.” His voice drips with playful sarcasm.

  I giggle. “I knew the businessman in you would appreciate this place.”

  “Pancakes it is, then.” Trenton sits up straight and signals to our waitress like a king commanding his royal subject.

  Mona scrambles over to us. She sets down paper doilies and our waters on the table next to our silverware and napkins, and removes a notepad and pen from her fanny pack.

  With her chest puffed up like a blowfish, she focuses on Trenton. “What can I get you folks?”

  Trenton indicates for me to speak on our behalf, a gesture far removed from his usual character.

  “Um, we’re gonna have the same thing.” I point to our selection on the menu. “The Pancake Mountain Special.”

  Mona scribbles down our order. “And how do you want your coffee?”

  “Two creams, two sugars,” I say.

  Mona’s eyes gloss over as she looks at Trenton. “And for you?”

  “Black.” His tone is no less curt than before.

  Mona gathers our menus. “I’ll be right back.”

  As she walks away, Trenton leans forward, propping his forearms on the table. “Sara, I’m attending a black-tie charity benefit upstate on Saturday evening and I want you to accompany me as my date. It’s being held at the Clarkson Harbor Country Club.”

  His invitation catches me off guard. A black-tie affair? At a country club? The event sounds intolerably pretentious, yet a part of me is intrigued. Since it’s within New York State and I don’t have to work this weekend, I decide to go. I pause before answering, though, so Trenton doesn’t think I’m too easy.

  “Of course, I’ll buy you a dress and proper accessories,” he says, as if that’s supposed to sway my decision.

  I roll my eyes. “This isn’t Pretty Woman. Breakfast is one thing. I’m not going to let you buy me clothes, too.”

  “My offer was not meant to be offensive.” Trenton’s piercing stare contrasts the casual nature of his response. “You said yourself you’re living on a tight budget.”

  I look to the table. He’s right. I can’t afford a new dress. But it’s the principle.

  “I really would prefer if you’d let me worry about what I’ll wear.” I just hope I can find something suitable without his assistance.

  Trenton shrugs. “It’s up to you.”

  “Okay. I’ll check my schedule and let you know tomorrow.”

  “I need to know now if you accept my invitation.” He leans back in his seat, regarding me pointedly. “I would feel disappointed if you declined, Sara.”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” I say with my infamous eye roll.

  Trenton’s eyes narrow. “That wasn’t a no, so I’m assuming the matter is settled. I’ll pick you up at six o’clock.”

  “All right, six o’clock.” I take a drink of water.

  “Speaking of finances, I want to clear your student debt. How much do you owe?”

  I erupt into a series of coughing fits that catch the attention of everyone in the diner and almost cause me to spit out my water.

  “What the hell?” I slam my glass down on the tabletop. “You aren’t paying off my student debt!”

  Trenton scowls. “It’s only money, Sara. Don’t be difficult.”

  “Says the gazillionaire CEO.” I dab my chin with a napkin.

  “There is nothing inappropriate about my offer. If I can make your life easier, I will.”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  “I disagree.”

  I toss my napkin onto the table and remain calm despite the infuriating effect Trenton’s flippant attitude has on me. “I have a budget, which I balance frequently, and a long-term savings goal. It gives me structure, the drive to work hard at my job, and a reason to control my spending habits. Thank you, but I must decline.”

  “It comes with no strings attached.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Trenton draws in a deep breath. “You’re really trying my patience, Sara.”

  I look away. Avoidance is my only option at this point.

  “Here you are—two Pancake Mountain Specials!” Mona sets our food and coffee on the table.

  Trenton grits his teeth. “We aren’t done talking about this, Sara.”

  I say nothing and grab the maple syrup.

  Mona clasps her hands in front of her. “Is there anything else I can get you two?”

  “We’re fine.” Trenton glares at me. “For now.”

  I decide if he pulls something underhanded, which is pretty damn likely, I’ll tell him I’m donating the money to the hospital and give him the option to take it back. We don’t know each other well enough for such a gift, and I highly doubt an offer like that comes without a price of some sort.

  Trenton sips his coffee and smacks his lips in a manner that suggests it’s rancid. Without a word, he sets the cup back down on the table and pushes it aside. I smile against the rim of my own mug and take a drink. The warm brew trickles down my throat and I sigh contently.

  The easy-listening music and low murmurs of the few remaining patrons provide a pleasant soundtrack. Thankfully, people seem to be minding their own business now.

  Trenton is stingy with his helpings of condiments while my pancakes swim in syrup and butter. He thoroughly inspects his utensils, pokes at his food, and takes a few bites before dabbing his mouth with a napkin and pushing his plate away like he did with his coffee.

  Oh, well. At least he made an effort.

  Once my plate is clear, Sam comes over and asks if we enjoyed our meal. He’s a pleasant older gentleman with a wife, Ella, who co-owns the diner with him, and two grown children. He and I usually converse whenever I eat here. We met a few months back when he came by the ER one evening with a broken arm. I was the nurse assigned to his care. He told me about his business and I’ve been a regular patron ever since.

  Trenton stands and offers his hand. He is extra courteous and knows all the right things to say to win Sam over as he praises his food, most of which remains uneaten on his plate. In fact, Trenton is so engaging, and lies so well, it’s actually unsettling. I only forgive him because I suspect his intentions are good.

  After a few minutes, Sam wishes us both good day and heads back to the kitchen.

  Trenton sits down and drinks the rest of his water in a few greedy gulps. “Sean tells me a friend of yours, Kelly, drove you to work in her cab last night.” He places his glass back down on the table. “Is that a common occurrence?”

  Kelly didn’t tell Sean her name so I wonder how Trenton knows. Then again, I know him well enough now not to be surprised.

  “If she’s on shift. Otherwise, I take the subway.”

  Trenton purses his lips. He doesn’t look pleased by my use of public transportation. Another future dispute to add to the list, I’m sure.

  He pulls out his phone and scans the screen. “It’s approaching ten o’clock.”

  I nod and he motions for the check.

  Three different waitresses clear our dishes—service I know is attributable solely to the fact that Trenton is their customer since I’ve never been treated so well in all of the times I’ve eaten here. I find their interest more comical than threatening. My moderate self-confidence is going to come in handy on Saturday, I bet, when I’m the one being gawked at.

  Mona drops off the check. Trenton fishes a thin platinum container out of his suit jacket and slides the top open to reveal a dark red American Express card. His initials are engraved on the cardholder, which I notice as the shiny metal catches the fluorescent lights. He tucks the credit card into th
e bill folder.

  I read the amount of our check upside down. “You’re paying by credit card? Do you collect Air Miles or something?”

  “It’s my business account.”

  “I’ve never seen a card like that before. A dark red AmEx, I mean . . .”

  Trenton lifts his hand, motioning to Mona that he’s ready. “Only one hundred of them have ever been issued. Four of those were to Americans, myself included.”

  “Like the exclusive black American Express Card? I’ve heard of that one before.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s much more exclusive than that one. The criteria for membership are much more . . . specific.”

  Mona retrieves the check and walks over to the register.

  Trenton’s phone rings and he answers the call like he was expecting it.

  “Yes,” he says into the receiver, and then hangs up.

  He types a quick message and slips the device back into his pocket.

  “Whenever I use the card, I must verify I made the purchase personally,” he says, catching my confused gaze, “to prevent fraudulent use.”

  “I’ve heard of that protocol for large purchases, but not for a bill this size. So they call you every time you use it, no matter what?”

  “Yes. They have a direct line to me for instant authentication twenty-four seven. I answer the call and then text them my confirmation code through a secured connection.”

  “I see.” How odd that he chose that particular card to pay for breakfast, instead of another one that requires less fuss—or cash, for that matter.

  Mona returns with the receipt and card. “No signature required. Thank you, Mr. Merrick, and I hope you come back soon.”

  Trenton pulls out his wallet and slips the receipt inside without a word or glance in her direction. Mona frowns and shuffles off. He places a twenty on the table for the tip.

  “You do know the bill was less than ten dollars, right?”

  Trenton slides along the booth and stands, tucking his wallet and cardholder away. “Let’s go, Sara.”

  I sigh and gather my purse.

  Unsurprisingly, Sean and Christopher stand on the sidewalk outside the diner. However, the two fancy cars parked along the curb behind them, which clearly belong to Trenton, aren’t the cars they drove earlier. I wonder what happened to the others as well as Trenton’s Ferrari.