Midnight in Brussels

by Rebecca Randolph Buckley

  MIDNIGHT IN BRUSSELS

  A Novel

  By Rebecca Randolph Buckley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Printing – December 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-9791701-3-3

  © 2009 by Rebecca Randolph Buckley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  R.J. Buckley Publishing

  Queen Creek, AZ

  www.rjbuckleypublishing.com

  Works by Rebecca Buckley

  NOVELS

  (“Midnight” Series)

  Midnight at Trafalgar Square

  Midnight at the Eiffel

  Midnight in Brussels

  COLLECTIONS of SHORT STORIES

  Love Has a Price Tag

  Bits & Pieces of Me

  CONTRIBUTOR

  The World outside the Window

  2008 WOW Anthology

  2009 WOW Anthology

  AMAZON SHORTS

  Never Again

  Just a Dream

  STAGEPLAYS

  Little Katie McMullen

  Opposite Ends of the Rainbow

  Café Dustyefsky

  SCREENPLAYS

  Peace in the Valley

  Where Do We Go From Here

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated …

  … to all women (young and old) who have dreams beyond their wildest imaginations of love, success, fulfillment, and promise.

  My belief is we can have whatever we want; we just need to believe it will happen and have faith in ourselves and the universe, and do our homework. It is ours for the asking.

  Also dedicated …

  … to the extraordinary lace makers of Belgium.

  From the first moment I observed the women (young and old) at the Kantcentrum (Lace Centre) in Bruges, tossing the bobbins and creating such masterpieces, I was enthralled with the art of lace making. It was there that I first conceived Amanda’s love and desire for Belgium and all it encompassed.

  http://www.kantcentrum.com

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  I wish to express my thanks to my generous hosts Robert van Nevel and Lievetje Gevaert at Carmersstraat 13 in Bruges, Belgium for wonderful accommodations and for the CD of photos and all the local information that gave me a clearer understanding of the history of the town and its citizens.

  http://www.brugesbb.be

  PART ONE

  “If you see it in your mind, you’re going to hold it in your hand.”

  Bob Proctor

  The Secret

  Chapter 1

  The steep red rock canyon walls on one side and a deathly drop to the boulders of the creek below on the other was intimidating, but a breathless beauty to behold. The shadows of dusk made the scenic panorama even more imposing.

  Arlie Jeffries glanced up one side and down the other, trying to take it all in as he drove the winding mountain road towards Globe, Arizona.

  He wished circumstances were different. He wished he could start all over in a small town somewhere. One like Flagstaff or Sedona that he’d passed through earlier that morning.

  Arlie missed the comfort of a small town, like where he grew up in Arkansas. And he wasn’t totally convinced he was doing the right thing going to Austin, Texas - trading one woman for another. Sure he liked women, but he was thinking that maybe he wasn’t cut out to live with one. He was a man’s man, didn’t like the responsibility of taking care of a woman, definitely didn’t want kids.

  “What the─” Arlie pumped the accelerator pedal as the truck sputtered and jerked to a dead stop. He swore at the top of his lungs and banged his fists on the steering wheel, his temper escalating to an aneurism high.

  He should have kept the car, could’ve stolen license plates and switched them, that’s what he should’ve done. He cursed himself for making one of the stupidest mistakes of his life.

  Of course the stupidest mistake was placing that first bet on the craps table when he and Amanda moved to Vegas from Arkansas seven years earlier. Gambling reeled him in from the get-go, and no matter how much money he made as an electrician at the Plaza Hotel and Casino, he never had enough to cover his growing gambling debts.

  Now he was running for his life. He was in to the loan sharks to the tune of fifty-two thousand. There was no way he could come up with that kind of money in the two days they’d given him. It was his last reprieve, they had told him. And they said if he didn’t come through with the cash they would use him as a lesson to others who didn’t pay up on time. So now he was running.

  He had left home the day before, on Christmas Day, and after driving ninety-five miles had abandoned his car in an alleyway of the most rundown section of Kingman, Arizona. He stayed overnight in Kingman and early that morning had bought a used pickup truck, paid cash for it, and made it to Phoenix without mishap.

  Finally, after grabbing a bite to eat at a drive-thru, he left Phoenix and drove east on Highway 60 towards Globe. His plan was to spend the night in Globe and then the next morning take Highway 70 which would take him to the I-10 west of Deming, New Mexico. There he’d dump the truck and buy another vehicle. Then it was a straight shot to Austin.

  He figured switching vehicles a couple times and doing the zigzag route would cover his trail well enough so that no one could find him.

  Now he found himself stranded on a mountain road in Arizona and it was getting dark. He should have left Phoenix earlier and not stopped at the Indian Casino to gamble. He sighed heavily as he dropped his head onto his hands gripping the steering wheel of the dead truck.

  His thoughts shifted to his wife Amanda, wondering how she was coping with all this. He’d run out on her. Didn’t tell her. He had never shirked his responsibilities to anyone in his life and now he was feeling guilty about it. She didn’t deserve it. But in his fearful state of mind he believed he was protecting her, too, by fleeing the threatening fists and guns of the loan sharks.

  But he had not only kept his gambling vice from Amanda, he had been having an affair with a Texan who stayed regularly at the Plaza Hotel, a business woman ten years his senior who knew more about sex and romance than Amanda would ever know.

  Charmaine de la Court had captured his libido the first night they’d met in the Casino when he’d been called in to do some emergency electrical repairs near the music lounge where she had been sitting alone, drinking. The affair began that night and continued over the next two years and was still going strong, which was the reason he was on his way to Austin, Texas … to surprise her, to hide out with her. No one would ever think to look for him in Texas.

  If he ever got to Texas! Now he was stuck in a broken down pickup truck in the middle of nowhere with only his feet to get him to the next town to find more wheels.

  The mountain road was deserted; there hadn’t been one vehicle in the past hour coming or going. According to the map, Miami, Arizona was just ahead. He locked the truck and began walking.

  A half mile further up the canyon road, just as he reached a scenic overlook near some boulders and trees perched on the edge of the sheer drop to what seemed like a bottomless pit, a set of headlights came up behind him, reflecting off the canyon walls. As it got closer he could see it was a black Lincoln SUV with silhouettes of three men inside.

  He gasped and his hair stood on end as the Lincoln pul
led off and stopped about sixty feet behind him. Its engine was revving, only its parking lights on.

  His heart stopped, and his first thought was to dart behind the boulders. But before he could act on it, the door opened and a man stepped down from the front passenger seat pointing an AK47 at Arlie.

  “Oh shit!” he exclaimed aloud and froze in terror.

  Chapter 2

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  The outdated calendar was still hanging lopsided on the end cabinet to the left of the kitchen sink. It was wider than its space and jutted a few inches into the window view of the blazing hot desert beyond.

  Amanda had nailed the calendar there as a daily reminder of what had happened six months before on Christmas Day, the day her husband had disappeared. She had moved it inside so she wouldn’t have to look at it all day over the big freezer chest on the screened-in back porch where she spent most of her time. They’d added the covered screened-in porch to the trailer the summer before, and now she spent her days out there lying on the not-so-new floral lemon-lime-colored swing-sofa, watching television hour after hour, waiting for Arlie to come home. Sometimes a Palm Springs local television station would come through and she’d watch older movie stars being interviewed, those who had retired and were living in Palm Springs in their grand homes. But usually only the three local Las Vegas channels were all she could get.

  When she wasn’t watching television or crying, she would close her eyes and dream of foreign places. She dreamed of beautiful green rolling-hills and snow-covered peaks, European villages with cobble-stoned streets, quaint shops, and romantic sidewalk cafes just like the ones she saw in the travel magazines. She’d never been to any of them. The only places she’d been outside of Mountain Home, Arkansas, were Little Rock and now Las Vegas.

  Nevertheless, she loved reading about the famous tourist places in the stacks of second-hand magazines the receptionist at the doctor’s office had given her. The receptionist had taken pity on Amanda, knew she couldn’t afford to buy magazines like the plentiful publications the doctor would place on the tables and racks at his office. For several years Amanda had been bringing home a steady stream of magazines, had read them cover to cover, over and over. It was her favorite pastime besides watching television; both were her only touch with the outside world.

  In one magazine a Belgian village stood out over the rest: Bruges - a medieval town with waterways weaving throughout, streets and lanes chock full of shops whose wares were of handmade lace, tapestry, and homemade chocolates. Amanda fantasized living in Bruges and having her own shop of lace and tapestry. She could close her eyes and visualize it. Sometimes she’d live in her dreams for hours at a time, would see herself in the shop sewing and talking to customers.

  But the reality of it was she had been abandoned on a desolate cactus- and sagebrush-filled Nevada desert, twenty miles east of Vegas, in a trailer park, all alone and penniless. Each day was a long, hot duplicate of the day before.

  The only time she left the trailer park was to take a bus to town to the doctor’s office which was super difficult for her since she was shy and afraid of people. Or she’d walk down the dirt road to the local grocery store which was little more than a country convenience store with a better assortment of foods than what one would usually find in such convenience stores. This one had meats, fruits and vegetables, and a post office inside – since it was the only store available to the community of mobile homes and trailers miles from civilization.

  When Arlie and Amanda first moved to Nevada from Arkansas and settled in, they did take one side trip, though. Amanda had convinced Arlie to drive them to the edge of the Grand Canyon which was just a few miles further east.

  She remembered how Arlie hadn’t been impressed.

  He’d said “It ain’t nothing but a big damn ditch! Who’d pay to come see something like this?”

  Amanda had commented, “But it sure is the deepest, widest and longest ditch you’ve ever seen, ain’t it?”

  She would sometimes step outside of their trailer and watch the helicopters fly overhead on the way to the Grand Canyon site where they’d land and furnish lunch and champagne for their tourist passengers. She’d read about the tours in the Plaza Hotel magazine that Arlie would bring home every month and wondered how anybody could afford paying those expensive fares.

  Amanda snapped from her reverie and glanced over at Arlie’s bicycle that had been leaning against the nearly empty freezer for the past six months. Tears came to her eyes as she saw the cobwebs crisscrossing the handle bars to the seat, weaving in and out of the spokes. Arlie’s driver’s license had been suspended because of drunk driving and he had used the bicycle to get to the country bus stop when he couldn't hitch a ride into Las Vegas to work.

  Everything on the back porch appeared to have been untouched for a long time. A thick layer of dust covered every surface. Amanda didn't care. Just as she didn't care if the calendar was hanging lopsided in the kitchen and she hadn't replaced it with a new one since December when Arlie left. Now it was June.

  She wiped her red-rimmed eyes with the hem of her threadbare cotton sundress and reached for the remote that was on the worn, wicker coffee table: a table she'd found in the same thrift store where they’d found the rest of their furniture when they moved there.

  She preferred to watch television out on the porch rather than inside the trailer. It was one of the first vintage TV sets that had a remote control. When the weather was bad, she'd cart the set into the trailer. It was small and easy to move, had a handle. Arlie had wired two illegal connections - one inside, one on the porch - making it handy to move the box back and forth. She'd also carry the electric box-fan with her to keep her cool. No air-conditioning. All she had to do was pour water into the fan’s water receptacle occasionally and it served its purpose, especially during the hot summer months.

  Amanda sat up and surfed all three channels. Nothing of any interest and she couldn’t tune in Palm Springs, either, so she sighed and stretched out on the sofa-swing again; resting the back of her head on its hard wooden arm. With her hand resting on her forehead, she closed her eyes and took in a long deep breath of the dampness that was generating from the water fan.

  Why did he do this to me? A small whimper escaped her lips and she covered her face with both hands. Soon the whimper became sobs and she turned, drew up in a fetal position and buried her face in the faded seat cushion, hoping she’d smother the hurt away.

  On Christmas Day, their seventh wedding anniversary, Arlie took off in the car to go buy cigarettes. He didn’t come back. The missing person’s investigation came to a dead end when nothing turned up indicating there had been foul play. But part of Amanda couldn’t believe that he would just run away. Deep inside she felt something terrible had happened to him and the first few months she repeatedly conveyed that feeling to the authorities.

  Now six months later she was still swaying back and forth between believing he ran out on her and feeling he was either injured or, worse yet, dead.

  On the days she felt he’d left on purpose, she berated herself. She should have known something was up that morning because he hadn’t been driving the car; he didn’t have a driver’s license. She’d heard of the seven-year itch, but this was by far, by God, the worst case of it on record. How could he leave her on Christmas Day, of all days, and it being their wedding anniversary to boot? How could he do such a mean thing?

  The confusing part of it all was he'd never acted as if he was unhappy, and although their life was pretty humdrum and boring at times, he’d never said he was unhappy. Of course he never said much about anything. If anyone should have had complaints, she would be the one. Arlie would be away at work hours upon hours while she stayed at home by herself, sometimes up to forty-eight hours at a time. It seemed as if he was always working. Then when he came home, he’d sleep. They hardly ever went anywhere or had much of a relationship, hardly had any conversation.

  She wondered if maybe she hadn’t
been sexual enough for him. She’d read in the women’s magazines how men needed it more than women. It did seem that way, but she didn’t know much about things like that. No one ever told her about sex back when she was growing up, neither her mother nor her grandmother talked about it.

  She’d always tried to give Arlie what he wanted when he wanted it, but sometimes she just couldn’t do it. Sometimes she just didn’t want to have to get up afterwards and bathe and change her nightgown because he’d gotten his sticky stuff all over it. She hated that, especially if she was tired and sleepy. So, when she refused to let him have her, he would turn away in anger and be snoring within five minutes.

  Sexual desire wasn’t what motivated her, it wasn’t foremost on her mind, ever. She didn’t see any sense to it at all. All Arlie did was work up to a point of excitement (at least she thought that was what it was) then he’d get on top of her and stick it in her and grunt and howl. Then he’d roll off and go to sleep and she was left with the mess to clean up.

  Nope, she didn’t see any point to it. She’d ask herself many times why was it the wife’s duty to allow a husband do that to her? But she’d let him do it most times, anyway, because that’s what married people were supposed to do.

  Even still, she couldn’t believe he would have left her because he didn’t get enough sex from her. Surely he wouldn’t leave because of that. Regardless, she’d been thinking that maybe if she had had more experience in that department she could have been better for him. She would never think of cheating on him to learn more, but there were times she had wondered what it would be like to do it with someone else. The romance novels she read made it seem so romantic and beautiful.