Electric Blue

by Nancy Bush

  I smiled at her. She flicked me a look. I realized then that her suffused skin was from a different emotion entirely: anger. She was infuriated. Rage pulsed through her like an electrical charge.

  Uh-oh.

  I said, “How was your massage with Trevin?”

  Chapter Five

  Miriam Westerly’s skin turned redder yet. I kind of shrank back, afraid her head might pop off. She said in short, bitten off words, “How—do—you—know—I—was—with—Trevin?”

  I blinked, shifted into acting mode. In confused innocence, I said, “I was at the front desk when you arrived.”

  It didn’t pacify her. She turned her head. I saw she was fighting back tears. It made me feel like a heel, but I wasn’t getting paid to start commiserating with her.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Do I look okay?” she snapped.

  “No…actually.” She sniffed loudly and her jaw tightened. I could tell she was torn between breaking down completely and erupting into a shrieking rage. I wasn’t sure which one I’d vote for.

  “Goddamn it!” she hissed, making her choice. “The suck-up, brown-nosing bastard. I’d like to smash my fist in his mouth.”

  “You mean Trevin?” I tried to look concerned and understanding. If she managed to actually hit Trevin, I thought his lips might look like hers. There was something ducklike to her mouth that drew my gaze like a magnet. How many sessions did it take to achieve that effect? One? Two? Twenty?

  “Yes, Trevin.” Her lower lip pulled down in disgust. Beneath the pink lips, there wasn’t quite the attention to dental hygiene there might be. I’m pretty sure I detected some plaque. As I hate to have my teeth cleaned, but do it religiously to keep the choppers working great and looking good, I feel everyone else should have to endure this gum-ripping experience on a regular basis as well. When someone cheats, like Miriam, I get all judgmental about them. There’s just no substitute for good dental hygiene. Collagen lips ain’t gonna cut it without the pearly whites shining brightly.

  “How do you know Trevin?” she demanded. “Are you a…client?” Those pink wads twisted into a sneer.

  “This is my first time to Complete Me. I guess that makes me still incomplete.”

  “You think you’re funny?”

  Well, now that really pissed me off. Here I was trying to be all friendly and understanding and she was using me as a substitute for her anger. “I’m a regular laugh riot.”

  “I don’t know why I’m even talking to you. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’ve got things to do. Important things. This was supposed to be…to be…a time…when…” Her voice started to shake. More tears welled. We were moving from fury to self-pity pretty fast. “…When…I could have something for me.”

  This last part was a squeak. “What did Trevin do?”

  “I’ve been going to him for over a year. And he said he’s quitting! He’s going to Australia. To be a scuba diving instructor. Can you imagine? A scuba diving instructor!” Her eyes were awash in tears. She looked stunned, like a thwarted child.

  “How old is Trevin?”

  “Twenty-four…” Her chin wobbled. I clocked her as being somewhere in her mid-forties. “He said this was our last appointment.”

  “There are other masseurs,” I said.

  She said bitterly, “Oh, sure.”

  That pretty much ended our conversation. I started wondering how much I had left on my spa allowance. Was Trevin already out the door? Or, could I possibly schedule something with him? Not that I was really eager to be on the bed beneath his hands, but I really wanted to know what he was all about. It was something I could put in a report.

  I didn’t really think I would need to follow Miriam from the spa. She and Trevin were done and she was heartbroken. Whatever had transpired between them was over. But Trevin might be able to provide some insight.

  However, I didn’t think I could handle any more massage today.

  What then? How could I meet with the guy?

  Miriam left the pool a few moments later, dejected and miserable as she slid her arms into her robe. “Jesus.” Her head snapped up as if pulled on a string. “He’s got my money!”

  What money? I wanted to ask, but she was suddenly frothing at the bit, padding quickly to the locker room. I grabbed my robe and followed, throwing on my blue jogging suit over skin still wet. I slid my feet into my flip-flops and nearly beat Miriam out the door. Unlike me, she actually took some time with her appearance, but then she had to save face as she left the spa.

  I followed her to the initial waiting room and watched her saunter through the glass doors to the street as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She did glance back once, longingly, and I bent my head over a brochure. But her eyes were searching for Trevin and she didn’t even notice me. She grabbed her cell phone and placed a call. I hoped it was to her bank. If she’d given Trevin a check she could put a stop payment on it. Or, if she’d given him a credit card, she could cancel it. But if she’d given the guy cash it was all over. I kind of felt sorry for her.

  As I debated on whether to ask for hot stone therapy with Trevin, a young man strolled in from the inner sanctum, his damp, dark, shoulder-length hair brushed away from his face. He was smiling, in that smirky self-satisfied way that bugs me for no reason I can name. I knew it was Trevin without being told, but Girl Number One suddenly brightened as if someone had toggled her switch. “Hey, Trev,” she said.

  “Hey, Gloria,” he said in singsong voice.

  “You’re not leaving today, are you?” She pretended to pout.

  “Not till Friday. I’ll come see ya before I head Down Under.”

  “You’d better.”

  He gave her a wink and sketched a wave.

  I quickly explained to the girls that I was Jane Kelly and I had a credit to use for payment. They took their time finding the paperwork and I wanted to scream. Lucky for me, after Trevin stepped outside he stopped to dig into a pocket for a pack of cigarettes. I watched Mr. Masseur/Scuba Instructor light up a menthol—like, oh, sure, that’s going to save your breath—and finally Girl Number Two pronounced me “Good to go.”

  By this time Trevin was striding across Hawthorne, trying to dodge the traffic. This was not something I planned on doing. Unlike Trev I have great respect for cars and what they can do to the human body. I kept my eye on him and walked along the opposite side of the street. I caught a crosslight and hurried quickly over to his side of the street. He was nearly two blocks ahead of me and I had to beat feet to catch sight of him as he turned into a doorway. I hurried to where he’d disappeared and saw he’d entered a small bistro that served coffee and luscious looking non-fat/non-sugar pastries. What are those things made out of?

  My stomach growled and I realized I hadn’t really eaten anything since yesterday’s evening’s chili dog. I should’ve got the foot-long dog. I knew it.

  I hoped following Trevin had been the right choice. My quarry had been Miriam but, seeing her defeat, I’d jumped ship. Now I fretted my decision. Clearly our client wanted the goods on his cheating wife, and though it made me feel kind of sleazy to follow the would-be lovebirds, I’d signed on for this tour of duty.

  Entering the bistro, I pretended not to notice Trevin. Not that he was paying me the slightest bit of attention. He and some guy pal were standing near a table, loudly discussing the merits of scuba diving in various parts of the world. It was a pissing contest with guy pal seating himself at the table, hands wrapped around an iced mocha thing that brought saliva to my mouth. Trevin stood over him, intent on making his point, something about the Great Barrier Reef. He was waiting for his order as I walked up to the counter.

  “May I help you?” a young woman with serious piercings asked me.

  I pointed to guy pal’s iced coffee. She rang it up and asked for nearly four dollars. I paid reluctantly. Normally I’m better at price checking. Now, as I eyed the pastries, I wondered if it was really worth making this stuff my late lu
nch and even later breakfast. Oh, hell. This is where Trevin had led me, so this is where I would eat. I pointed to a rolled thing oozing marionberry filling. I gave her my name—Veronica—my favorite alias, then forked over some more dollars. Carrying my bounty carefully, I chose a small table with a straight-on view of Trevin and his friend.

  “T,” the girl called, holding out a whipped milky concoction in a glass mug.

  Trevin picked up the mug. I cut off a piece of my pastry with the side of my fork and shoved it into my mouth. Either I was really hungry or it was really good. For a moment my attention was taken by my pastry. Wow. Non-fat/non-sugar? Who knew?

  In that second Trevin leaned toward guy pal and said something too low to hear. Guy pal whistled and said, “You dog.” They both chuckled. I strained closer, but just then my cell phone, which I was in the act of pulling from my purse, started vibrating in my hand. I nearly jumped from my skin. It felt like a huge, flying insect had landed on my palm and was thrumming its wings. I had to stifle a surprised gasp. Unfortunately, it caught Trevin—T’s—attention and he gave me a look. I smiled and checked my caller. Jazz.

  Trevin’s gaze slid down me, hesitating somewhere around my chest. He was one of those.

  “Hey, there,” I greeted Jazz.

  “Hey, yourself,” he said warmly. “I was wondering when we could get together?”

  Ah, yes. The debriefing. “Later this afternoon…evening?”

  “Let me take you to dinner.”

  He was talking my language. “That’d be great. Should I meet you?”

  “Sure. You pick. Where would you like to go?”

  “What price range?” I asked cautiously.

  “I don’t care.” He sounded amused. “Sky’s the limit.”

  “Dangerous words. I can pack the food away, given half a chance.”

  “How about Hill Villa? I’ll make reservations for six. That work for you?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I hung up, pleased. Hill Villa was one of Portland’s premier restaurants. It was perched on a hillside with a spectacular view of the Willamette River and Mt. Hood. I’d eaten there exactly once, a long time ago, but I still remembered the prime rib fondly.

  Trevin had gone back to an animated conversation with his buddy. His cell rang and he slid a look at Caller ID. “I think this is her. Looks like it might be international. I’d better go.”

  “Tell her G’day. And to hang onto her wallet ’cause T’s coming south!” He guffawed.

  Trevin sent him a dark look, called him a dick and left.

  I followed a couple of seconds later, pretending to place a call on my phone as I sauntered out. The damn thing buzzed in my hand again, and I nearly dropped it, then juggled like mad to keep it from hitting the painted concrete floor. I just managed to save it. “Hello?”

  “You still at the spa?” Dwayne asked.

  “Nope. On the job.”

  “Following Miriam?”

  Trevin seemed to be heading back to Complete Me. I kept him in my sights while I threaded through the looky-loos strolling along Hawthorne. I’d felt hot when I’d left the spa but now a stiff breeze was blowing my hair and sending a chill down the back of my neck. “I’m actually walking behind the other party.”

  “She met someone at the spa?”

  “Works there. Worked, actually. Just quit.”

  “He the boyfriend?”

  “Pretty sure. He’s moving to Australia to teach scuba diving. There’s a girl waiting for him there. And I think he might have got a chunk of money out of our client’s wife. He seems to be known for this behavior. A friend of his teased him about it.”

  “Does Miriam know he’s leaving?”

  “Uh-huh. Didn’t take it well.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “She was—distraught.”

  Dwayne grunted. “I’ll call Spence and give him the update. If the wife’s upset, maybe she’s ready to come clean with him.”

  “Spence?” My antennae lifted.

  “Yeah. Knew his wife was cheating on him. He’s pretty torn up about it.”

  “Does he go to the Coffee Nook?”

  “Not sure,” Dwayne said, losing interest. “Yeah, maybe. I’ve seen him with those dark red paper coffee cups. I think they’re from the Nook. Your friend Julie probably’ll know. I can ask him.”

  “No,” I answered quickly. “No big deal.”

  Dwayne hung up and I crossed back across the street, still following Trevin. But in my inner eye I saw Spence and Janice playing footsie underneath the counter.

  Yeah. He was really torn up about his cheating wife.

  I met Jazz at Hill Villa around six PM. I’d had to really spend some time thinking about my appearance because he’d already seen me in my two favorite outfits. I’d had to take it up a notch, donning a silvery blue dress that I seldom wore—mainly because it was the kind of thing that would serve me well if I ever became a lounge singer. The neckline was demure, but it plunged down the back, which created problems for wearing a bra, so I didn’t bother. Still, I’d been complimented on it more than once, so I kept it around against my better judgment. It was my “wedding” dress, the one I wore to all formal occasions. I’d nearly made myself crazy the whole way over to the restaurant, wondering if I’d overdressed. Though Hill Villa is fairly swank, casual seems to go everywhere these days, and I just plain struggle with being dressed up.

  So, when I entered wearing my dress and the pair of silver sandals that I’d recently bought to team with it—I’d walked into the store to take them back, walked back out again, then clutched them to me like they were the answer to the world’s salvation—I was feeling a trifle insecure. I know lots of women who wouldn’t think twice about being the chic-est peacock in the room, but it ain’t me, folks.

  I’d brushed my hair down straight and added some faint, curling-iron curls at the ends, burning the side of my neck in the process. (Had to cover the redness with serious cover-up, then fretted about that, too.) I refused to ask myself what all the fuss was about. I knew anyway. Jazz Purcell was handsome and I didn’t want to completely shrink into the wallpaper. There was no competing with him, but hey, I wanted to at least look worthy. I didn’t want to read the looks on the other patrons’ faces that said, What the hell is he doing with her? Maybe they would anyway, but at least I could try and mitigate it.

  The maître d’ took one look at me and said, “Ms. Kelly?”

  This was a good sign. “Yes.”

  He smiled warmly and nodded to a girl holding a pile of maroon leather menus in her arms. “Mr. Purcell’s waiting for you.”

  She led me to a table for two by the window. Jazz half rose as I walked toward him. Silly me, my heart skipped a beat or two. Good God. He was all in black. Black collarless shirt, again something silky and primal, black slacks. His hair was brushed back artfully. I kinda liked that it was longish. Not too much. Not scary, ex-hippy ponytail stuff. Just brushing his collar…if he’d had one.

  “You look great,” he said, trying to hide his surprise.

  This was more gratifying than annoying. “I clean up good.”

  Outside the window was a dizzying view down to the Willamette River and east toward Mt. Hood. It was spectacular, so crisp and clear it was as if someone had taped a picture of the mountain to the window in lieu of the real thing.

  As I sat down Jazz reached across the table and covered one of my hands with his own. Surprised, I nearly jerked back, just managed to keep my hand in place.

  “Do you believe in fate?” he asked.

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to spoil the moment, but I always feel the compulsion to lay down ground rules even when there appears to be no need. “Not really,” I hedged. I worried he was going to go all mystical on me.

  “I’ve had a life-changing year. It really started last Christmas when my wife died in the car accident. I’ve been trying to get past it, and move on, but…” He gave me a look out of those killer blue eyes. “You
know about the memory loss?”

  “Memory loss…?”

  “They didn’t tell you?”

  I wasn’t sure who “they” were. “I guess not. You mean your family?”

  “They all liked you. I just thought maybe one of them took you aside and explained.”

  I was still struggling with “they all liked you.” Clearly Jazz was overstating the situation. “I really didn’t talk to any of them other than Orchid.”

  “Nana loved you,” he gushed. “Just loved you.”

  I heard distant warning bells. “What memory loss are you talking about?”

  “After the accident, I couldn’t remember anything for a little while. I guess it’s common after a head injury. No memory of the accident. But I haven’t had much of a memory even past that,” he admitted. “I knew who I was. And I knew Logan and Jennifer. But it just seemed like kind of a mess. Like I had pieces of somebody else’s life…a movie…that wasn’t mine, in my head. It all came back pretty fast. Well, in a couple of weeks, but I lost a lot of my short-term memory. Now, it’s hard to learn new things.”

  “How did the accident happen? Do you know?”

  We paused while the waiter brought a bottle of red wine that Jazz had asked for before I’d arrived. I’d been thinking of having a cocktail, but when Jazz questioned if I liked the name of the particular zinfandel he’d already ordered, I said, “I’m sure I do,” and left it at that.

  The waiter began the uncorking ritual and poured us each a glass of a deep red wine that looked luscious, reflecting bloodlike from the light of the table’s votive candle. “I don’t recall, but I’ve heard them say it enough times. It was just before Christmas. Logan and Jennifer and I were shopping. We’d been in downtown Lake Chinook and were driving home. We were on the hills when a car came around the corner too fast and pushed us off the road. We actually went over the side of the cliff but got hung up in the trees.”

  …Over the side of the cliff…I had a mental image of Jazz’s car careening off one of the steep Dunthorpe slopes. A finger of fear coldly touched the base of my neck. I’d had a similar experience not too long ago. I hadn’t had the benefit of an automobile, if it was a benefit. I’d lost my grip on a tree limb and fallen to the ground, which had been a long, long way.