by Karen Gordon
He hugs me back, one armed, before we both take our seats again. I leave the box open on the table between us as we set to work on the stack of information Dom and I have compiled for him.
✈ ✈ ✈
We never discuss the cost of the necklace but Evan advises me that I should have it locked up in the hotel safe when I’m not in my room. I’ve never owned a piece of jewelry that required so much security and I’m not sure I like it. I feel uncomfortable going through the process of talking to the manager then filling out the paperwork to put the security of my necklace in the hotel’s hands. They don’t take the responsibility lightly. When they ask the value I have no idea what to answer.
“You haven’t had it appraised?”
“It’s a gift. I only got it a few hours ago.” My heart sinks more because he’s right. I will have to have it appraised so I can insure it, but the idea of appraising a gift doesn’t sit well with me. I look at it, sitting on the manager’s desk, all shiny and show-y. I don’t think I’ve ever loved and hated a gift more in my life.
With the octopus in the safe I’m safe to take a shower and call Dom. I give her the highlights of my day and send a pic of the necklace. Her reply is silence.
“How do I handle this? What would you do?”
More silence as she tries to think of a way to put a positive spin on this. “Maybe his gift giving will get better with time.”
“Maybe.” I concede. “I like him, Dom, I do, but today was so hard and awkward and strange.”
“You barely know each other. It will get easier. You said it’s going to take a while to do this sale.”
“But today felt like he was forcing my hand.”
“I don’t know what to tell you except chill. Try not to overthink this. Have a glass of wine and some dinner, maybe a shot or two, let your brain relax and enjoy a nice, rich guy with questionable taste wooing you.”
“Wooing?”
“I’ve been reading too many historical romances lately, cut me some slack.”
“You are so much better at this than I am. Let’s trade places.”
“You think he’d notice? The belly might give me away.”
“You could just drape the octopus necklace across it. Believe me, no one would notice your belly under it.”
This gets us both laughing. “I might just do that. Bring it home to me.”
✈ ✈ ✈
My body clock is completely thrown off and I’m exhausted. I order a simple dinner from room service and shop for a new romance novel on my iPad while I wait for it to arrive. What am I in the mood for? Vampire? Western? Billionaire? I have to laugh at the irony. It’s so easy to order up a perfect billionaire romance, but the real thing…not so easy, at all.
My dinner is wonderful and calm and quiet. I get a text from Evan.
Dinner?
I let him know.
Just ate, but thank you.
He’s either surprised or upset that I’m not available.
At 6:00?
I make up an easy excuse.
I’m still on East coast time.
He’s persistent and quickly texts back.
Tomorrow night?
We have a meeting scheduled tomorrow but it’s obviously easier for him to communicate with me by texting. Then again, I can’t say I mind either. I’m in my PJ’s with my hair shoved up in a headband.
My finger hovers the Y key. This would be so much easier with any other customer. I want to go to dinner with him, right now as a customer and in a few months on a date but how do I communicate that to him? I reply:
Sounds great.
And resolve to try to keep the tone friendly but business-like tomorrow. I’m dancing on a fine line here, and I don’t have a ton of confidence in my skills to do so. I wait to see if he replies again and I’m not surprised when he doesn’t. His way of communicating is sparse and direct. He almost never says goodbye or see you tomorrow. Some people might be offended. I actually kind of appreciate his efficiency.
I roll the room-service cart back into the hallway when I finish my meal. I’m going to get into bed with a sexy historical novel and I don’t want to be disturbed. My plan is to get my head out of Silicon Valley by hanging out in Regency England until I fall asleep.
✈ ✈ ✈
I’m up at five a.m. California time but it’s my usual waking time in Georgia. I’m also extremely horny from the dream I had just before waking. The bodice-ripping in merry old England I read about last night showed up in my dreams. I don’t remember the face of my seducer but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Evan. I roll over and stare at the faint light of dawn coming through the crack in my drapes and wonder if I will ever see him in that way. It will help when I don’t have to worry about him being a client. And he’s cute. I can definitely see kissing him…but sex…I shudder at the thought of us clumsily thrashing around on a bed. The thought also kills my horny high and any thoughts of finding my vibrator in my suitcase.
I roll to my other side, away from the light, hoping to fall back to sleep. I’m just starting to drift back into sleep when my phone buzzes. It’s on silent but the vibration of it against the glass top of the night stand is jarring. I roll over to see if I want to answer it.
It’s a New Orleans number but one I don’t know. I answer with a very groggy, “hello.”
“Is this Vivienne Ramsey?” The voice sounds official and there is a lot of background noise. This can’t be good. I sit up quickly to clear my head.
“Yes.”
“Ms. Ramsey this is Officer Douglas of the New Orleans Police Department.” These are never words you want to hear. My breath stops as he slowly gets to the point of this call. “Your name and number came up as the ICE contact on Carla Ramsey’s phone.” What? No! I am Carla’s in-case-of-emergency contact since my dad died. This call feels too much like a flash back to that night.
“Yes, I’m her step-daughter.”
“OK, well Ms. Carla has been involved in an accident.” His voice is calm, maybe too calm. “She’s going to be alright but she is banged up pretty bad. She’s being transported from the scene now. Can you come and meet her at the Tulane Medical Center?”
I look around the room as if I’m assessing if I can get dressed and down there quickly. “I, um, I’m in California on business right now…” I’m up and out of bed. “I’ll get to the airport as quickly as possible and get a flight.”
“Oh, I wondered where this area code was from. So you aren’t local?”
“No, sir, but I can get there. I’ll get there today.” I’m pretty damn sure of myself considering I haven’t even checked flights.
He pauses. “Alright, you do that. I don’t want you to worry too much. Her left leg took quite a hit but she will be ok. She was conscious and talking when we put her in the ambulance.”
I take a few deep breaths to focus. “Thank you. Thank you for calling me. I need to pack. I’ll be there as soon as possible.” I hang up before I hear his reply. He’s a slow-talking Southern guy, too slow for me right now. I just want to get there. I need to be there for Carla. She’ll be freaked out and desperately wishing she had Big Mike there for her. I can’t bring him back but I can be the next best thing, his daughter with the same I’ve-got-this disposition.
Chapter Seven
I’m packed, including my octopus necklace from the safe, but I can’t find an open flight and I’m getting more pissed by the moment. I finally find an open seat in first class and choke on the water I’m drinking at the price. It may be an emergency but I’m still my insanely-frugal self. My points won’t cover the cost but I know someone who can.
God bless Bob Brockhaus. He not only let me use his points but he called and booked the flight himself. When someone at his point level calls personally they practically forward the call to the head of reservations. I love him for making this easy for me because I anticipate I’ll also get all the super-platinum, executive-express (and whatever name they have for it) privileges
he normally does—on first, off first, lounge, etc.
On my way to the airport I text Evan. I keep it simple because I’m not in the mood to pull him into my entire family dynamic. I simply tell him that a close friend has been in a bad accident in New Orleans and I have to go there for a while. I tell him that I don’t know for sure when I’ll be back but I’ll be in touch. His reply is a simple.
I understand.
First class is nice especially since the plane is full. I go ahead and order a cocktail when the guy next to me does. As they say, it’s five o’clock somewhere and one free drink will calm my rattled nerves. When they arrive he hands me mine then reaches his across to clink glasses with me. I respond more out of habit than a desire to chat with him.
“To Mardi Gras in New Orleans.” We toast and I’m about to take a sip when what he just said hits me. Mardi Gras?
I casually pull up the calendar on my phone and sure enough, today is Sunday and Fat Tuesday is two days away. New Orleans will be chaos. I bring up Tulane Medical Center on the map app. It’s the closest hospital to the French Quarter. Oh hell. I’m eating up pricey in-air data time but I don’t care. I start fishing for an Uber car to take me from the airport to the hospital but I can’t figure out how to set my location when I’m at thirty thousand feet. I spend the next hour searching for a Marriott anywhere near the hospital. There’s not one room available—they’re completely sold out.
✈ ✈ ✈
I’ve landed and realized, I am so fucked. I wait for forty minute for an Uber to respond to my plea and it’s going to be four times the normal price. I’d take a cab but they are scarce too. While I’m waiting I try a few other hotel chains near the hospital but it’s the same story everywhere—sold out.
I don’t know if she can see her phone but I keep texting Carla to let her know my status. I’m trying to keep it light so she won’t know that I’m worried.
Me and all my bags will be there in about a half hour #NeedToPackLighter
I don’t get a reply but it makes me feel better to reach out to her.
When I’m dropped at the hospital entrance the absurdity of my situation hits me. I have my big suitcase, my hanging bag, my big carry-on that holds my laptop, and my purse. There is no valet or even a cart here. I shove my ginormous self through the door and approach the reception desk.
The woman’s “May I help you?” is cheery but she’s eying my bags like I’ve clearly over packed for my stay here.
“I’m here for Carla Ramsey. She was in an accident and brought in through emergency.”
She types on her keyboard. “Are you family?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m her emergency contact. She’s waiting for me.”
She swivels in her chair to point my way. “Down this hall, take a right at the end then keep going until you see the sign that says Emergency. Follow it to the reception desk there.”
I thank her as I waddle away with my bags in tow, trying to avoid running over people along the way.
When I get to the emergency room I’m told she is in surgery, that I should take a seat in the waiting room, and that a doctor will be out to talk to me. My heart sinks because I want answers. I want to see Carla. I drag my way to a corner and try to arrange everything so I’m not crowding anyone else. When I sit down I realize they are all staring at me. I’m in a New Orleans emergency room during Mardi Gras with all kinds of people with odd injuries and I’m the strange one. I try to fade into the background. I want to be alone with my thoughts while I wait.
And wait…
And wait…
It’s stuffy in here and my stomach is growling. I should go find something to eat but I’m sure the second I do the doctor will appear and I will miss him. So I wait…
It’s dark outside now. I can see a sliver of outside through a window in the ambulance entrance. I adjust myself on my seat again and pull out my phone. It’s after eight p.m. and my battery is on fifteen percent. I pop my neck and breathe and try to remain calm.
I’m drifting off a little when I finally hear my name. “Vivienne Ramsey?” An older doctor with a head full of thick, grey curly hair is in the front of the room calling it out.
“Here.” I choke out. I have to clear my throat. I’ve been sitting silent for hours. “Here.” I raise my hand. He approaches me and I try to stand but the weight of my carry-on and purse pull me back down.
“It’s ok, you can sit.” He crouches down in front of me. He has super calm, beautiful blue eyes and I study them for any signs that he is about to deliver bad news. “I’m Doctor Tilford. Your mom?” He’s not sure so I nod.
“Step-mom, yeah.”
“She’s going to be fine.”
I let out a deep breath, my first since this morning in California.
His smile is one of understanding. “She’s had considerable damage in her left hip and the femur was broken but the surgery was successful. With time and rehab she will be up and walking again.”
I fold over and let my head fall into my hands. The weight I had been carrying all day has been lifted. Dr. Tilford waits patiently while I gather myself. “Can I see her now?”
“She’s still under right now from the anesthesia, but I can send someone to get you when she wakes up.”
I nod. Now that the worst is over the adrenaline I’ve been working from is leaving my body and my lack of sleep and food is catching up with me. I’m in a fog, something the good doctor recognizes.
“Why don’t you go get yourself something to eat. It’s going to be a while before she wakes up.” He gestures toward a hallway and I assume it must be the way to the hospital cafeteria.
I nod. “Thank you.” I get up, this time bracing for the weight of my bags. “Thank you.” Once I have everything ready to roll I make my way through all the irritated people in the waiting room then down the hall in search of food.
✈ ✈ ✈
I find the cafeteria but it’s closed. I wander hallways looking for another with no luck. I fight my way into a bathroom to splash some water on my face and pee. Dark circles are forming under the pale skin around my eyes. I look like shit.
On my way back to the emergency room I pass a vending machine area. Oh hell yes. I plead to any god I can think of to make these things take credit cards. One doesn’t but the others do. I play them like they’re slot machines. I get peanut butter pretzels, granola bars, shortbread cookies, a Hersey bar, a Diet Coke and a lemonade. It’s way too much but I’m so damn hungry and I don’t know when the cafeteria will open or when I will feel like moving around with all my bags again. I eat the pretzels and drink the soda while I stuff the rest in my purse. I sit for a minute and text Carla’s status to Dom. She’s relieved but also worried about me. It didn’t escape her that I was headed into Mardi Gras. I lie and tell her I’m going to my hotel room soon. There’s nothing she can do to fix my dilemma and worrying her won’t help either.
When I get back the waiting room is more crowded than ever. The revelers are starting to show up with alcohol-induced injuries. There is no way I can fit in there with my bags so I give the head nurse my cell number and ask them to call me when Carla wakes up. I roll my bags back down the hallway in search of a place to crash.
✈ ✈ ✈
I don’t hear my phone ring but I’m jolted awake when I hear my name.
“Miss Ramsey?”
I’m curled up across the seats of two chairs in an empty waiting room I found on the third floor. I have my feet wrapped around my luggage so no one can take it and my head on my purse. I open my eyes to see Dr. Tilford in the doorway.
I awkwardly unwrap my legs from around my suitcases, and sit up. “Oh, Doctor.” I’m still too foggy to remember his name. “Is she awake? Is she ok?”
He comes in and sits across from me in the small space. “She’s fine. You don’t have a place to stay?”
When I realize it’s me he’s concerned about I put on my best competent face. “Oh, I’m fine. I’ll get something
today. I just came here straight from the airport.”
He nods but I can tell he isn’t buying it. “It’s Mardi Gras, you know.”
“Yeah, I realized that on the flight here.” I run my fingers through my hair to pull it straighter so I look less homeless.
“Kinda hard to find a room.”
“Probably, but I’ll figure it out.”
He shakes his head no.
“Really? You don’t think so?”
I get another silent no. Then he smiles at me as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a note pad and starts writing.
“Are you giving me a script for sleeping pills?”
He laughs at this and keeps writing. “No.” (scribble, scribble) I’m sending you to a place where you can get some very good food and a comfortable place to sleep.” He finishes the note and tears it off the pad and hands it to me. “And it’s not too far away.”
I look at the note but can’t make out a single word in his doctor’s handwriting. There is a number at the top, possibly an address. “Is this some sort of homeless shelter?”
He chuckles. “Not exactly, more like a place for a wayward damsel in distress.”
The term grates on my nerves. What the fuck? I’m no damsel in distress. Doesn’t he know I am one of the most competent women he will ever meet? I’m about to tell him when I stop myself. I do need a place to crash and some better food. The candy and snack wrappers from my lunch/dinner are evidence in the trash can next to me and I’m not sure how long they will let me and my pile of suitcases occupy a waiting room.
“Thank you. I’ll check it out.”
“Do that.” He watches me fold the piece of paper and put it in my purse. “Today. Oh, and your stepmom is still sleeping. She woke once and we told her you were here but you didn’t answer your phone. You can come back and see her later today.”
