by Ally Nelson
“Happy Birthday to you…Happy Birthday to you…” Ashley could hear both her parents’ voices as they sang together; she could picture them standing cheek to cheek, holding the phone in front of themselves as they belted out the tune. “Happy Birthday, dear Ashley…Happy Birthday to you!”
Ashley laughed. “Thank you.” She settled her phone into the hands-free cradle attached to one of the air vents on her dash board. “I was wondering when you were going to call…”
“Well, we know there’s a three-hour time difference,” Mom said, “and we knew you had classes today.”
“Yeah, I did,” Ashley replied. She fished into her purse again, this time for a Scrunchie which she used to bind her honey blonde hair together into a ponytail just to get it off her neck. Going from air conditioned classrooms to the inside of a car that had been sitting closed up all day under the late spring sunshine instantly left her feeling hot and sweaty. Once she had her hair up, she pulled her seat belt across her lap. “I just finished up for the day, as a matter of fact, so you have perfect timing – as usual.”
“Well, call it a leftover from thirty years of being an obstetrician,” Mom laughed. “Those babies always arrived exactly when I said they would. Speaking of arrivals…you should be getting a package today from Fed Ex. It’s a birthday gift from your father and me.”
“Aw, thanks, Mom!” Ashley said. She stuck her key in the ignition and started up the engine. “You didn’t have to do that, though. You send me money every month to help with my rent, as it is.”
“We don’t want our little girl living in a bad neighborhood,” Mom said. “Besides, you turn twenty-one today. It’s one of those ‘milestone’ birthdays. We’re just sad we aren’t able to spend it with you.”
“I know,” Ashley said with a wistful sigh. “I really do miss you, too. I’ve got to try to get back to Ann Arbor this summer, before I start my last year of school.” She grinned. “This time next year, I’ll be getting my Bachelor’s degree in International Business and Culture!”
“We really are proud of you, sweetheart,” Mom said, and Ashley could now picture the softness of her mother’s face, the blue eyes that Ashley had inherited from her shining with affection. “Although your father still likes to tease you about going to Cal State instead of U of M, we are both very happy that you are doing so well with your studies. You’ve made Dean’s List two years in a row. That’s quite an accomplishment!”
“What can I say? You raised me right.” Ashley grinned. “Look, Mom – I’m going to get on the road, now. I’m going out tonight with some friends. They’re throwing me a party at a really cool club where they serve chocolate-covered strawberries and have all these aerialists who perform while everyone dances.”
“That sounds interesting, honey. Well, you have a great time, but be responsible.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be taking a cab there and back. No driving.”
“That’s my girl. Happy Birthday! Love you!”
“Love you, too! Love to Dad!” Ashley called out. “Bye!” As soon as her mother ended the call, Ashley smiled. She really did miss them, and as much as she loved Michigan she had really wanted to get out of the Midwest and go somewhere else for college. Cal State offered the courses she needed. She had always wanted to live on the West Coast, ever since traveling to Southern California with her parents many years ago to visit relatives in San Diego and making a sojourn up to Anaheim for a visit to Knott’s Berry Farm and of course, Disneyland.
Pulling out of the parking lot, Ashley made her way from the campus west to her apartment near Mission Junction. A gated community, Casa Verde had a terraced layout, with lots of beautiful landscaping along the stone steps leading up to each individual unit’s door. Ashley made her way past the kidney-shaped swimming pool where several other residents stretched out on lounge chairs to soak in the sunshine. She considered changing into her swimsuit and coming back down for a quick dip. After all, the party wasn’t until nine o’clock. She had plenty of time for a swim and a nap before she headed out.
She stopped by the post boxes to pick up her mail. It came as no surprise to find several colorful envelopes, many with the Hallmark emblem embossed on the back, all birthday cards from various friends and relatives. One in particular made her smile. “Tasha!” She still kept in touch with her childhood friend, even though they now lived on opposite sides of the country. Ashley tucked the rest of the cards under one arm, eager to open Tasha’s first. She used her apartment key as a letter opener and pulled the card free. Immediately, she could tell it had been handmade, and that the watercolor painting on the front of two girls resembling Ashley and Tasha as children had been rendered by her artistic friend. Tasha had even written a poem in an elegant script with gold ink, and signed it. ‘Missing you, drink one for me! Love, Tash.’ Ashley pushed out her lower lip. “Aww…” She pressed the card to her chest and sighed. She missed Tasha, too. I should call her before I go out tonight, she thought.
As she rounded the corner of the walk leading toward her building, Ashley almost collided with a tall, middle-aged gentleman. “Oh! Sorry!” she said, with a little laugh.
“Quite all right,” he replied, his mellow voice marked by a distinct British accent. He offered Ashley a smile and a nod before continuing on his way. Ashley had seen him before but never really spoke to him. She knew his name was Tom, and that he had just moved in last month, taking a two-bedroom unit one door down from Ashley’s one-bedroom place. Lean of build, with that fair English complexion, soulful, pale blue eyes, and a full head of dark curls with just the hint of silver at the temples, Ashley found him to be very attractive. She knew nothing else about him, though, other than the fact that he kept to himself and listened to a lot of music from the 1960s which she could sometimes hear coming from the open windows of his apartment.
As she reached her door, Ashley spotted a Fed Ex package. Usually, residents could pick up packages from the guard house at the complex entrance, but sometimes during shift changes they would deliver them to the tenants personally. Ashley unlocked her door and pushed it open before bending to scoop up the box. “Wow, kind of heavy,” she said, and grunted as she shifted it to get a better grip. “Dang, Mom – what did you send me? A box of Petoskey stones?”
Kicking the door shut behind her, Ashley carried the box right to the living room and set it on her coffee table. She dropped her purse next to it along with the rest of her mail. Her phone chimed to alert her to an incoming text message. Ashley read it as she walked to the kitchen to retrieve a steak knife from her utensil drawer. It was one of the guys from work, Rick, wishing her a happy birthday and then asking if she would swap shifts with him next Tuesday. Ashley sent a text back, saying she would.
Cutting into the box, she pulled aside some bubble wrap and Styrofoam packing peanuts to find a book. Her eyebrows drew together in confusion when she read the title. “The Keys of Promise…” Then she saw the author’s name, and she gasped. “W.T. Hamilton? Oh, my god!”
W.T. Hamilton was, hands down, Ashley’s favorite author of erotic romance novels. Back in her junior year of high school during a sleepover with a couple of friends, one of the girls had pulled out a copy of In the Back Seat, which she had found hidden in her mother’s closet. The teens had huddled together, taking turns reading chapters out loud. The book had been filled with several steamy sex scenes, which got them all giggling and then moaning.
The story itself had been well-written. Already an avid reader, Ashley found herself seeking out other books by the author. In the Back Seat had been one book out of a series, and each series had been named for the occupation of one of the main protagonists. That one had come from The Chauffeur, about a wealthy young heiress named Leslie who has an affair with her limo driver, Reginald. Hamilton’s current series focused on Scott, a locksmith who gets embroiled in a heist and falls in love with Becca, a girl who witnessed the robbery, going to any lengths to protect her from his partners in crime who are out to k
ill her. Most of the books featured a more experienced man with a younger woman. As a result of reading these stories, Ashley had developed an interest in older men and often fantasized that her first time would be with someone like her fictional heroes: a mature and world-wise man who would introduce her to passions beyond her wildest dreams.
Ashley wondered how her mother managed to get her hands on a copy of The Keys of Promise, when it was not due to be released in stores until next month. Did she contact the publisher and arrange to buy a pre-release to surprise Ashley for her birthday? Ashley pulled the book out, brushing away the bits of Styrofoam sticking to the glossy cover, her fingertips straying over the image of a well-built, shirtless man, his muscular arms wrapped protectively around his female companion.
As she lifted the book out of the box, a piece of paper clinging to the back cover fluttered to the floor. Ashley retrieved it. What she expected to be a note from her mother turned out to be a message, printed on the publisher’s letterhead, from the editor to none other than W.T. Hamilton. “’Please find enclosed five copies of your book…’” Ashley read aloud. She frowned, puzzled. Looking down into the box, she saw another issue identical to the one in her hand. Quickly, she checked the outside of the box for address label. “What the heck?” Sure enough, the package had been delivered to the wrong apartment. Instead of 3110A – Ashley’s unit – it should have gone to 3110C.
To her new neighbor, Tom.
This didn’t make sense. W.T. Hamilton was, as far as Ashley knew, an older woman – there was even a photo of her on the back cover of every one of her books, and a blurb about how she lived in Toronto with her husband and two cats; when she wasn’t writing she could be found tending her flower garden. So, why would Hamilton’s books be shipped to an Englishman living in Los Angeles?
Then a thought crossed Ashley’s mind. What if W.T. Hamilton wasn’t real? It wouldn’t be the first time someone wrote under a pen name – even Stephen King had been known to do it, as Richard Bachman. He had used a photo of his literary agent’s insurance man for the book covers. What if this was the case with her favorite novelist?
“W.T…” Ashley snorted and shook her head with a chuckle. Maybe it was her neighbor’s real name; the ‘T’ could stand for ‘Thomas.’ He probably has some weird British first name like ‘Wilfred’ or ‘Worthington.’ And then something else dawned on her, and she had to slap her forehead as she experienced what her mother liked to refer to as A Really Blonde Moment. “Are you kidding me? W.T. Hamilton –the person who has been fueling my wet dreams for years – lives in my building!”
Chapter Two
As awkward as this was going to be, Ashley knew she had to get the package back to its rightful recipient. Hastily putting everything back into the box, including any stray peanuts and the bubble wrap, she slammed the flaps back together and jumped up from the couch. She marched to her door, opened it, and peered outside. You can do this, she told herself firmly, as she made her way along the path and up the steps leading to her neighbor’s door. You’ve waited on countless celebrities at the restaurant – Spielberg even thanked you personally for recommending the bourride with lemon aioli.
Upon reaching Tom’s door, she considered just leaving the box and running back to her place. Don’t be a wuss, Ashley, she scolded herself, and knocked.
A moment later, the door opened and Tom stood there, still in the same faded pair of straight-leg jeans and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow and the first three buttons undone, that she saw him in a few minutes before. He smiled when he saw Ashley. “So, we meet again,” he said, arching one eyebrow as he leaned casually against the door jamb. “Hello. How can I help you?”
Ashley grinned up at him nervously. He had to be over six feet tall, standing a full head higher than her. “Um, hi,” she said, trying her best not to sound like an idiot and fearing she would fail miserably. “Sorry to bother you, but I think this…belongs to you.”
Glancing down, Tom saw the box in Ashley’s arms. He straightened, face lighting with a bright smile. “Oh! I just went down to the guard house to ask about that!”
“I’m really sorry,” Ashley said. “I was expecting something from my mother for my birthday, and I just opened it without looking.” She passed the box into his large, long-fingered hands. “I’m not in the habit of opening other people’s stuff.”
“It’s quite all right.” He treated her to another radiant grin. “Today’s your birthday, isn’t it? Many happy returns.”
“Thanks.” She gestured to the box, her need to know the truth about the contents getting the better of her. “At first I thought my mother had sent me the book but I knew it wasn’t due to come out until next month –“
“Wait,” he said, his smile fading into a frown for the first time. “How would you know that?”
Ashley gripped the back of her neck and looked down, feeling her face heat with a self-conscious blush. “Well…I’m kind of a fan…of your work.” She peered up at him. “You are W.T. Hamilton, aren’t you?”
That smile came back, along with a warm chuckle. “You have found me out,” he said, and nodded. “Yes, I must confess – I am the author.” Lowering his voice, he glanced around before leaning toward her. “But let’s just keep that between us, shall we?” He winked.
“Oh, no problem,” Ashley said, holding up a hand. “I won’t breathe a word.” She rocked on her heels. “I will admit it’s kind of a surprise, though. You look nothing like your picture…”
“Really?” Tom reached into the box and pulled out the topmost book, flipping it over to look at the photo on the back. “I was always told I had Nan’s eyes…”
Ashley’s mouth fell open. “Wait – that’s your grandma?”
Tom laughed and nodded again. “Yes, it is. See?” He held the book up next to his face so Ashley could see it beside the photo of the woman she had always believed to be the author.
“Oh, yeah. I see it, now.” Ashley smiled. “So, I guess W.T. Hamilton isn’t your real name, either.”
“’Hamilton’ is my grandmother’s maiden name,” Tom said. “W.T. are my own initials, reversed – Thomas Whitehall.”
At least I was right about the ‘T,’ Ashley thought. “Well, like I said – I won’t tell anyone your secret.”
“It’s actually not going to be a secret much longer,” Tom said. “I plan on ‘coming out,’ you might say, in an interview I’m giving to Details magazine next week. The reason I moved to California is because I’m in talks with a studio to turn The Chauffeur books into a series of films.”
“Really?” Ashley could not stop herself from having a genuine fangirl moment at this news. She recovered with a laugh. “Well, that’s good. I’m sure they’ll be better than the movies they’re making based on that other crappy, badly-written book series that shall go unnamed, which is nothing more than glorified abuse being passed off as romance…” She saw him raise his brows at this and her eyes widened in horror as she realized how that sounded. “And by ‘crappy,’ I mean those books – not yours!” she explained in haste. “Yours are actually good, and original, not a rip-off of someone else’s work.” God, her face had to be bright red right now. She gulped and suddenly wished she could teleport to the moon. “Again, I’m a huge fan of your writing.”
“I appreciate the support.” Tom pulled his lower lip between his teeth and regarded her for a moment. “Come inside for a moment, would you?” he asked, jerking his head toward his apartment.
Confused, Ashley hesitated for a second before agreeing. “Okay.” Tom stepped aside and she walked over the threshold into his home. Looking around, she could see it had been decorated tastefully in warm hues. The living room had a big, plush, brown sofa that looked like it could swallow up anyone who sat on it. She saw shelves lined in vinyl on either side of a stereo with a turntable. On the walls hung framed posters from old music venues including Woodstock, Monterey Pop, and individual artists like Ray Charles, The Rolling Stones,
and Janis Joplin with Big Brother and the Holding Company. A large red and gold oriental rug covered the polished hardwood floor, and large palm plants stood in painted clay pots near the windows. The room had a kind of eclectic elegance to it that made her own Ikea-furnished place look cold and plastic. Probably because most of what you have in your apartment is plastic, she told herself.
Tom set the box on his dining table. With the book he had taken out before still in his hand, he disappeared down the hallway for a moment only to return with a Sharpie marker. “Forgive my poor manners,” he said, “I neglected to ask your name.”
“It’s Ashley,” she replied, pulling her attention away from checking out his place. “Ashley Kilpatrick.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Ashley,” Tom said, and held out his right hand to her.
Timidly, she reached out to clasp it. “Believe me,” she said, “the pleasure is all mine.”
“Is it, now?” Sauntering to the living room, Tom dropped onto the edge of the sofa and opened the book to the first page. “I want to thank you for delivering my package,” he said, propping the novel on his knee as he scrawled something inside the front cover. “I asked my publisher for a few copies of the new book to take with me to interviews and photo shoots over the coming days and weeks.” He finished, closed the cover, and set the pen down on the mosaic-tiled coffee table. Standing up, he walked back over to Ashley and presented the book with both hands. “I would like to give this to you personally, as both a token of my gratitude for being such a good neighbor, and as a gift for your birthday.”
Ashley blinked in surprise. “Um…thank you,” she said, and accepted the unexpected offering. During the exchange, his fingers brushed hers, warm and gentle. Ashley hugged the book to her chest and smiled. “This is wonderful. I can’t wait to read it.”
